


Interfering Angels

by DictionaryWrites2



Series: 20th century gays do gay shit [1]
Category: Bright Young Things, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: 20th Century, Complicated Relationships, Crossover, Crying, Drunkenness, Fun, Guardian Angels, Humor, Light-Hearted, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Queer Themes, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-14 14:51:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: And interfering demons, besides.





	1. Chapter 1

“Agatha,” Miles said.

“Miles,” Agatha replied.

“Do you know something?”

“Hm?”

“I believe I am drunk.”

“Good God,” Agatha said.

“Is he?”

“I think I’m drunk too.”

“Gosh.”

For a moment, leaning heavily against one another, they considered this state of affairs. Agatha’s arm was clumsily thrown about Miles’ cape, which was made of mink, or vole, or whichever one was soft and warm. It belonged to someone’s aunt, but Miles could not be relied upon, in this moment, to inform the reader as to whose aunt precisely – perhaps an aunt of his, but then again, perhaps not.

“Miles,” Agatha said.

“Agatha,” Miles replied.

“I must leave you.”

“Must you?”

“We’re… on a street. I know a girl on this street. I should like to know her better.”

“Know her again, you mean,” Miles said. Agatha waggled her eyebrows at him, and he giggled, drawing her to look at him so that he could top up her lipstick. Because he was fastidious about these things, he topped up his own at the same time, looking at his reflection in her highly fashionable dark-lensed spectacles.

“Where will you go?” she asked him, adjusting his blouse. He knew, in his way, that she was asking out of politeness – if he told her he had no idea whatsoever, or gave some dreadful answer, she would still walk away from him, and abandon him to it; were the circumstances reversed, he would do the same.

It was not that they were disloyal to one another, for they were more loyal to one another than either of them were to anything else in the world. It was merely a matter of pressing circumstances, and a pressing need to devour as much fun as any night could offer them, for they knew, oh, how they knew, that it would all end soon. How soon? Why? With what? They could not know. But they knew _soon_ , and it bit at their heels like a monster in chase of them.

“There’s a curious gentlemen’s club on the corner here,” he said. “I believe I’ve lain with several of the members. Worth a try.”

“You cad,” she said admiringly, and she patted his hip before she turned and lurched away from him, making her way to the address in question. For just a moment, he stared after her, and he wished, just wished, just for a moment, that it could be as it had been when they were children. Not precisely like that, not precisely, but just… the innocence of it all. Dressing in one another’s clothes, laughing together, playing on the hillsides, reading, dancing—

He liked drinking. He needed the drink, at times. He needed the other stuff, too, but—

Wasn’t it nice, without it? Wasn’t it nice, when they could just _be_ , without all their medicine?

He had had, he thought, too much to drink. He was feeling dreadfully full, like he was all but sloshing with everything, and awfully unsteady, as though he were on a boat on a turbulent sea, and in any case, he was being dreadfully maudlin, he thought, with a sinking sensation of somewhat overpowering shame. A man might not make him feel better, but certainly, it would make him feel _different_ , and that was what he wanted.

A distraction.

Making his way onward, he took to that club of old: the Hyacinth and Vine.

\--

“I just want a drink, that’s all!”

“I think you’ve had enough.”

Aziraphale glanced up from his book at the clatter and noise in the hall, arching an eyebrow, and he looked to the bartender, one Robert Roberts. He had been the proprietor of the Hyacinth and Vine for some twenty-seven years now, and Aziraphale had known him when he was a scarce slip of a thing hiding from policemen in alleyway: he knew him better now, big and beefy, with a thickly bristled moustache, and hair that was thinning on the top.

“Will you go,” Aziraphale said mildly, “or shall I?”

“You let every one of them in,” Robert said wryly. “Never known you to turn even the arsiest of drunken louts away.”

“Good point,” Aziraphale said, with a slight quirk of his lip, and marked his page. “I’ll go. Pour the young thing some water, will you, dear?”

Robert sighed, but he turned back to pour some, and Aziraphale stepped down from his seat, making his way from the club into the entrance hall, and peeking around the stout, tall figure of Michael, their bouncer. He was a pretty man, scarcely _that_ much older than a boy, really – or at least, as far as Aziraphale could make out, in any case. He was wearing a stole over his shoulders, and a gold and silver suit Aziraphale suspected was not typically marketed to gentlemen: his lipstick was still fresh on his mouth, although his eyeshadow was smudged.

In this moment, he looked small, drunk, and somewhat defeated.

“Goodness,” he said, “isn’t this young creature dressed for the nines?”

For a moment, the poor thing flagged further, but then he clumsily raised his bare chin, smiled disarmingly, and said, “All for _you_ , darling.”

“Do let him past, Michael,” Aziraphale murmured. “I wouldn’t put him in a cab alone.”

“But, Mr Fell—”

Michael’s protest died on his lips, looking at Mr Fell’s expression, and he stepped aside, letting the lush fall forward, and fall he did. Aziraphale stepped forward, catching him beneath his skinny arms, and the young thing giggled, pressing his face against Aziraphale’s breast. His cologne was one of those sweet, floral things from the continent, the sort of thing that Crowley wore… But no, Aziraphale did not want to think about _him_ just now.

“Come, my dear, let’s get some— _Ah_ , I think _not!”_ Aziraphale’s hand moved faster than was strictly humanly possible, catching the young thing’s delicately manicured hand where it slid over his belly, and he felt the sudden wave of anxiety, uncertainty, fear.

“You don’t think I’m pretty?” the young man asked, his voice drink-slurred and wavering, his eyes wide.

“Come and sit down,” Aziraphale said gently, and he drew the young man into the club proper.

It was a quiet evening, and the majority of those that made the place their usual haunt had gone elsewhere: it was soon to be midnight, and barring Aziraphale, there were only a trio of middle-aged fellows playing cards, with whom he was vaguely friendly, but not _friends_ with.

He brought the young man down to sit on one of the sofas, and he poured from the waiting jug a glass of water, which he brought to his mouth.

The boy spat it out.

“This is _water_ ,” he said.

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed.

“This stuff is the devil, you know,” he said. “Gets you awfully sober.”

“That’s rather the idea.”

“Excuse me,” the boy said, twisting without grace to look back at Robert. “Might I have a G&T?”

“If Mr Fell says so,” Robert said.

The young man turned upon him a pleading look. “That’s you, then, Mr Fell? Oh, _won’t_ you be an angel, please, I’ve never been in here before, and I did hope I’d meet a friendly face, but I—”

“The water,” Aziraphale said sweetly, with an edge of cold steel that seemed to glint at the very back of his eyes. “Please.”

The young man took a swallow. His lipstick stained the edge of the glass.

“I thought it’d be _busier_ ,” he said plaintively. Aziraphale could feel the depth of feeling vibrating off the poor thing – desperation, want for company, nostalgia, grief, fear, uncertainty… “I wanted…” His hand landed on Aziraphale’s thigh, and Aziraphale gently took up his wrist, drawing it away. “Do you think me frightfully ugly?”

“No,” Aziraphale said softly. “You’re quite beautiful, I’m sure. But beauty doesn’t really seduce me, I’m afraid.”

“I can be beastly, you know,” the young thing said, leaning forward, his lips parting. His gaze was practised in its sultry heat, but Aziraphale could feel the desperation rippling beneath it, could feel the way the young man was on the verge of tears. “So beastly you mightn’t stand it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Miles,” the young thing said. “What’s your name?”

“Mr Fell.”

“I can hardly say _that_ in bed,” Miles said.

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “Best that you don’t.”

It would have been nice to say, at this point, that young Miles, so accosted by the depth of his many feelings, fell asleep, perhaps laying his head on this sympathetic stranger’s breast; it would have been pleasant enough too, albeit less so, to say that the young thing burst veritably into tears, and cried them out into Aziraphale’s lap.

Unfortunately, neither such event unfolded.

Miles was, instead, quite abruptly sick.

\--

“Angel, what is _this_?”

Miles sobbed louder, his face buried in his hands, and Mr Fell gently rubbed his back, letting Miles more entirely against the soft heat of Mr Fell’s tweed-clad chest. He had run out of apologies, at this point: instead, he hiccoughed and cried and once or twice whimpered, and all in all was dreadfully pathetic.

Mr Fell, for all his virtues, apparently had a weakness for the pathetic, because he had called for someone to pick them up, and said someone was tall, dark, and handsome, and drove a rather handsome Peugeot.

“I need to get him home,” Mr Fell said to the stranger.

“ _Your_ home? Why?”

“Oh, Crowley, this isn’t the time to be dreadful, and you _do_ owe me. The poor thing is quite ill, and he needs to be put to bed.”

“Do you have a bed?”

“ _Yes_ , if you must know!”

“Fit to be slept in?”

“Oh, _hush!”_

Miles allowed himself to be drawn into the backseat of the car, where he sobbed rather louder against Mr Fell’s chest. He was unable to stop himself, he was so dizzy and unwell and in all honesty quite sad, and it didn’t help that Mr Fell, despite being an absolute stranger, was patting his back and kissing the top of his head, and it did make a man feel almost tender.

“I thought you didn’t like this car,” Mr Fell said into Miles’ hair.

“I don’t,” said the driver. “It doesn’t suit me.”

“Well, dear boy, it’s not a suit. It’s a car.”

“ _Yesss_ ,” said the driver. “But, you know, if I’m going to have a car, I want it to be the _right_ car.”

“Well, what’s the right car?”

“I don’t know. Hasn’t been invented yet, maybe. Who’s the nancy?”

“ _Crowley_ , you ugly thing!” Mr Fell snapped, and Crowley went quiet, apparently cowed by this display of irritation.

When they arrived at their destination, Miles exited the car on unsteady feet, stumbling, but to his surprise, the driver slipped his arms behind Miles’ knees and shoulders and lifted him, bridal style, clean off the ground. He hiccoughed again, and rubbed tiredly at his wet eyes.

“Goodness, you are a dashing knight,” he said weakly. “Haven’t you your armour?”

“It’s in storage,” Crowley said absently, and followed Mr Fell up the pavement to the door of what appeared to be a bookshop, which he unlocked.

“You aren’t going to murder me, I hope,” Miles mumbled. There was a sort of dark fog falling over him, now, the drink and fatigue rather taking its toll, and he was ever so grateful for Mr Fell being so hurried as to get him to rinse out his mouth, else the taste _would_ be lingering, he knew… _Most_ of it had gone onto the carpet, although some of it had gotten onto poor Mr Fell’s shoes—

“Bit late to worry about that,” Crowley said darkly.

“Oh, _stop_ it, you foul serpent,” he heard Mr Fell say.

“You don’t have to keep being so nasty to me, you know, I woke up, didn’t I? I woke up, so you don’t need to—”

“Oh, _shut up_ , and follow me upstairs.”

\--

Miles Maitland, unsurprisingly, awoke in misery.

 _Quite_ surprisingly, his misery faded as soon as he begrudgingly opened his eyes. His headache faded; his dry mouth moistened to normality; his aching body was soothed to warmth and comfort.

“Here, dear boy, do drink this,” said a quiet voice, and he looked up blearily at a plump, round-cheeked gentleman in a blue, woollen jumper, his lank, wispily blond hair tied in a messy bun at the back of his head.

“Oh,” Miles said, and took the glass. To his distaste, it contained water. “Thank you,” he said.

“Not at all.”

“Did I… er, that is to say, did we…?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” the man said, arching a stern eyebrow and looking down at him with watery blue eyes. “No, I’m afraid you were rather ill last night, Miles, and I brought you here after you were through with your tears… Poor thing. Are you feeling alright?” His fingers brushed against Miles’ forehead and, drat it all, it was actually rather nice. It was _gentle_ , soft. He wanted more.

“Mm,” Miles said. “Just a bit tired, actually.”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry about that. I’ve put you in some of Anthony’s pyjamas, anyway, skinny thing that you are, I could hardly put you in some of mine. You go back to sleep, young man, I’ll just be downstairs.”

“Oh, no, no,” Miles said, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “Oh, who’s… Mr Fell. That’s your name. Oh, God, I do hope this isn’t your marriage bed, with this Anthony…?”

“I think _not_ ,” Mr Fell said, somewhat archly. “No, not at all. Put that man in a bed and he’s liable to stay there for half a century. But _you_ , my dear, you can sleep it off, I merely wished to check—”

“Oh, please don’t leave me on my own,” Miles said fitfully. He was still a little bit tipsy, he thought, and feeling rather fragile: the man, who looked to be a well-preserved fifty-something, gave him a softly paternal smile, and reached up to cup his cheek.

“Why don’t you come downstairs, hm? I might install you on the sofa beside my desk, where I can keep an eye on you.”

Mr Fell gave him a dressing gown and a pair of slippers, then wrapped the blanket about his shoulders, and led him down the stairs into a tiny little office, to the side of which was a battered, lumpy looking sofa.

Upon the sofa was a handsome fellow in dark sunglasses, his black hair, shorter than Mr Fell’s, coiffed back from his face. His suit was unspeakably tight, and Miles rather fancied he might follow the seams to their, ahem, _natural_ conclusion at his groin.

“Get out of the way, Anthony,” Mr Fell said sharply, and the man – Crowley, this was – made a face, but reluctantly moved out of the way, letting Miles sit down, and then lie down when Mr Fell gestured for him to do so. “I hardly see why you’re here in any case.”

“Oh, _angel_ ,” said Crowley.

Miles would have adored to listen to this lovers’ tiff approach its conclusion, but he did not.

Once more, he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“… ever going to wake up?”

“Yes, I expect so. Look, he’s stirring now. We’ll bring him to lunch with us.”

“What? Angel, I invited _you_ , not the latest stray you’ve brought home!”

“Don’t join us, then, and I shall lunch with him alone.”

“When are you going to stop being so cold with me?”

“When you make it up to me.”

“Angel—”

“Miles?”

Miles stirred, yawning thickly, and he looked blearily at the figure of Mr Fell, who was crouching beside the sofa, and stroking through Miles’ hair as though Miles were an especially well-favoured moggy. Begrudging though the air of the thing might be, it was astoundingly pleasant, and he could not find it in himself to voice protest.

“Mr Fell?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Time’s it?”

“A little past twelve, dear. Time you were getting up, I think.”

Miles sat up clumsily on the lumpy sofa. Although it looked to be dreadfully uncomfortable, it was rather the most comfortable thing he had ever lain on in his life, including two plump dignitaries, and for a scant moment he entertained the thought of purchasing one like it as a replacement for his bed.

“Best not, young man,” said Mr Fell, and leaned forward with a comb in his hand. Somewhat startled, Miles remained still as Mr Fell drew a comb neatly through his hair, withdrawing the tangles from his natural curls with astonishing alacrity and no pain whatsoever; next, he drew a wet cloth over Miles’ face, and drew away the paint from the night previous – although, Miles noted, his lips were already free of their waxy sheen, which Mr Fell must have removed before putting it to bed, lest Miles stain his bedsheets. “Here, up you come. I’m sure Anthony has some clothes he can lend you.”

“Has he?” said the driver Crowley, in acidic tones.

“If he wants to join us for lunch at the Ritz,” Mr Fell said archly, “yes, I’m quite sure he has.”

Miles felt he rather had the measure of the situation, and in all honesty, was somewhat embarrassed by it, if only because it did not follow the ordinary script for such situations as these. Mr Fell – an older gentleman, portly but not unhandsome, evidently a fellow of some means; Anthony Crowley – a fellow markedly younger than his counterpart in a deeply fashionable suit, handsome, evidently very well looked-after. It was hardly the first time Miles had stumbled home with a fellow and upset said fellow’s favourite boy, but ordinarily, there was some indiscretion to be proud of.

To his awareness, he hadn’t even been able to _kiss_ Mr Fell, and now that the memories from last night were returning to him in a dark haze – quarrelling with the muscle-man at the Hyacinth and Vine, displaying for Mr Fell’s pleasure the contents of his stomach, being bundled into Crowley’s car and brought home with them – he felt rather off-kilter.

Miles looked down at his pyjamas, which were a very fine, dark green silk, and were exquisitely comfortable. They were beneath an equally comfortable, but in comparison hideously ugly, tawny dressing gown that had plainly been repaired in several places over the years, and had soft fleece about its neck.

“These are dreadfully lovely pyjamas,” he said meekly. “I do thank you for the loan of them.”

“You’re _welcome_ ,” said Crowley, somehow managing to hiss the words despite not having an ‘s’ to sail by, and he gestured for Miles to follow him with two long, handsome figures. Miles swallowed, reaching up to rub at one eye, and did so.

“You needn’t take me anywhere, you know,” Miles said, “I could have my own clothes, and I can just—”

“No,” Crowley said airily, somehow managing to saunter up the stairs[1], and making his arse – which was rather flat, and apparently rather muscular – move pleasantly beneath the liquid-tightness of his suit trousers. “If he’s decided to bring you, we’re obviously bringing you. You’ve dined at the Ritz before, I s’pose?”

“Of course,” Miles said.

“Oh, good,” Crowley said. “Have you been barred?”

“No,” Miles said, feeling a flush come to his cheeks.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Crowley muttered. “He always enjoys wiping the slate clean where he can. Thinks it’s a good deed. In here.”

Crowley led the way back into the bedroom Miles had presumably been asleep in earlier, for the sheets were still pulled back on the bed, and Miles surveyed the little room, with its mountainous stacks of books and papers, its various pieces of bric-a-brac. There were several paintings leaning against the wall, laid on their sides, and there were mugs of tea on nearly every surface, each one in a different state of undrunk.

“I know,” Crowley said as he rummaged through a wardrobe, apparently reading his train of thought. “He’s awful. He starts reading a book and forgets his drink entirely.”

Crowley leaned back from the wardrobe, pulling from its depths some trousers, an undershirt, a blouse, a jacket, and a cravat. The latter were in jewel tones, a sort of beautifully warm lilac that made Miles’ lips part as he delicately took them, and he looked at Crowley. There was something funny about his face, and it wasn’t just his sunglasses[2]. It wasn’t to do, either, with the fact that he was rather tall, and was currently towering over Miles a little bit, making sure that he knew it.

Anthony Crowley’s face was handsome, but it was handsome in a dreadfully uncanny way that Miles couldn’t quite put his finger on – the cheekbones were artfully high; the jaw was finely crafted; the chin was sharp, without a cleft; the lips were thin, dark, and a perfect cupid’s bow; the brow was marble-wrought; the dark-chestnut hair was luscious and luxuriant, possessed of perfect wave; the skin was an olive-tinted, handsome brown, and was so marvellous a colour that Miles could scarcely believe an oil painter hadn’t mixed the hue with care. In fact, that was the problem with all of Crowley’s features taken together: he was so wonderfully beautiful that it rather seemed too much, and Miles couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at a painted figure or a handsome sculpture that simply hadn’t received the missive about staying stock-still and what-not, and was instead walking about with an inescapably enticing shimmy of the hips.

“You’ll have to make do with your own shoes,” Crowley said as he slipped past, with a smirk that made Miles’ heart beat a little bit faster.

“Thank you,” Miles said dumbly, and the door clicked shut.

\--

“I think,” Aziraphale said as Crowley came back down into the bookshop, “that we ought to drop him off at the Drones, after lunch.”

“The _Drones_?” Crowley repeated, staring at him. “ _Him_? Aziraphale, this isn’t some pretty little dove you’ve brought home – he’s _voracious_. You set him off at the Drones and it _will_ be a cat among the pigeons.”

“Oh, but, Crowley, you’ve no idea!” Aziraphale said, fiddling with his shirtcuffs and keeping his gaze down on them, so he didn’t have to look up at the face of his Heredity Enemy, with whom he was feeling great enmity at the moment, and had been ever since he finally returned from his abrupt disappearance to inform Aziraphale that he’d been asleep. For over _sixty years_. “The loneliness that came off the poor thing, he seems so desperately sad—”

“He’ll spread it about, if you put him in with those impressionable idiots,” Crowley said. “If this is you trying to _good_ , you might as well write it down in my book now.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said wretchedly, and when Crowley stepped close enough, Aziraphale buried his face in his chest, as he had done a thousand times before. Crowley slung an arm casually about the angel’s shoulders – to do more, to touch his hair or the back of his neck, that’d be overdoing, but he could hold him, at least. “I just want to help the poor thing!”

“Aziraphale…”

Remembering that he and Crowley were meant to be quarrelling, Aziraphale abruptly drew himself back from Crowley’s embrace, and he looked to the stair, where young Miles was now descending.

He looked quite fetching, in a pair of light trousers and a lovely lilac jacket, as well as a high collar and a neatly tied cravat patterned over with birds – none of these were clothes Crowley would ever have worn himself, of course, and it rather warmed the soul (or, er, grace, or spirit, or something) to see that he’d taken such care as to the young man’s own preferences in making for him an outfit.

“You really needn’t entertain me,” Miles said quietly. “I’m awfully embarrassed, Mr Fell, you really mustn’t—”

“But we must,” Aziraphale said briskly, clapping his hands together and beaming. “Off we go.”

\--

“So, what’s your name?” Crowley asked from the driver’s seat. He was driving, in fact, a Vauxhall, which was somewhat bizarre, as Miles had been convinced the night previous that he had been driving a Peugeot.

“Miles,” Miles said.

“You gave us your _real name_?” Crowley asked, and barked out a laugh. “You’re a chump and then some, aren’t you?”

“Oh, do ignore him,” Mr Fell said from the front bench, turning back to give Miles a paternal smile. “He’s merely embittered that we might talk about something other than himself at lunch today.”

“You really don’t have to,” Miles said again. “I can call my friend Agatha, and—”

“Why, you must call her,” Mr Fell said. “Invite her along.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure… She was at a, ahem, a friend’s home, you know—”

“Invite the friend,” Mr Fell appended airily.

“They’re not friends, _Ezra_ ,” Crowley said, putting rather a lot of ire into the forename. “He means they’re lesbians.”

“Oh,” Mr Fell said, but he was rendered flustered only for half a second, and rallied admirably. “Well, I’ve known some charming tribades in my time. You shall call them from the Ritz.”

“No one calls them _tribades_ anymore, angel.”

“I only know their address,” Miles said, “I don’t—”

“Well, what’s the address?”

“14 Portland Place, but—”

“Anthony?”

“Why not?” Crowley said, making the car give a stomach-twisting lurch as he turned on a penny. “Sappho was a great gal.”

It would be true to say that Miles felt somewhat out of his depth. Ordinarily, he was the one that led his conversational partners through strange dips and turns, startling them and leaving them struggling to catch up. He tended to do this by being openly scandalous in a way that was only afforded him as a result of his station.

These two men were not aristocracy: that much was clear. They were not, in fact, very scandalous, either – when they talked about lesbians, they didn’t do it with the hush-hush, “aren’t we filthy” air most did. They did it in a sort of run-of-the-mill, casual way, as if their whole social circle was made up of inverts, and really, what did it matter anyway, as there was nothing wrong with it, and they didn’t disturb the milkman, which was the most important thing.

Miles was, despite himself, rather taken away with it.

He leaned forward on the bench, putting his hands on the back of the front one, and looked between Crowley’s uncannily beautiful features, and Mr Fell’s uncannily ordinary ones. “Who _are_ you two?” he asked.

“I sell books,” Mr Fell said primly. “You were in my shop, you might recall.”

“And _you_?” Miles asked of Mr Crowley.

“Oh, I do things,” Crowley said casually, with a wave of one handsomely-gloved hands. “You know, here and there.”

“When he’s not sleeping,” Mr Fell muttered.

“Oh, angel, what do you want me to _do_? Send you a few hundred bouquets in apology?”

“It would be nice, _yes_ ,” Mr Fell retorted.

“Lovers’ tiff?” Miles asked.

“Hardly. He’s incapable of love,” Mr Fell said.

“Mr Fell dislikes it when I don’t register my every movement, or even my every indolence, with him,” Crowley said, and braked hard. “14 Portland Place. Off you go, knock on the door. We’ll wait.”

“I might be a while,” Miles said.

“We’ll wait,” Mr Fell repeated, and Miles went.

\--

They had been waiting in the car for forty-five minutes, Crowley idly smoking a cigarette that Aziraphale occasionally took a puff from, and had not burned down to its butt because neither of them yet expected it to, when Crowley said, “Angel?”

“Demon?” Aziraphale replied.

“That was very petty,” Crowley said.

“You’ve often said _I’m_ very petty.”

“Yes, but you don’t usually admit to it.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, and grabbed Crowley’s cigarette out of his hand again, taking a very long draw.

“What are we doing?” Crowley asked as he took the cigarette back.

“Going for lunch with some young people,” Aziraphale said. “People do it.”

“Yes, with relatives,” Crowley said. “Not with a pretty young invert one brought home from the club and his sapphic chorus.”

“I expect they need guidance,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, Crowley, you ought have _felt_ the— Well, I can hardly expect _you_ to understand, but he just felt so terribly wretched. It made me ache, how desolate and how lonely he was. He needs friends!”

“He has friends. These lesbians.”

“And I’m sure they’re very nice lesbians, Crowley, and handsome ones at that, but he didn’t feel that he had _anybody_ last night, sapphically inclined or not, and I simply cannot bear to see a young creature drown himself in drink simply because he feels that the world is drowning him anyway. Oh, Crowley, he was ready to go home with any man that looked at him nicely – can you _imagine_? He put his hand on _my_ thigh! Mine!”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s thighs. “They seem nice enough,” he said. “Touchable.”

“Oh, do quieten your vague temptations,” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley sighed, taking his cigarette back. “And I— Oh, I say. Is that young Reginald?”

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gaze, and he drew his sunglasses down his nose to better see him by.

It was, indeed, “young Reginald”. He was a tall young chap, only just of age, with strapping shoulders and a handsome face, although his head was a bit big, even for his big body. He wasn’t wearing his footman’s uniform, and was instead dressed for the day that was in it, enjoying the sun on his face. There was a book under his arm.

“He _won’t_ get on with this sort, angel,” Crowley said, but Aziraphale was already scrambling out of the car to rush after him.

Crowley sighed, and tipped his head back against the car seat.

“Good afternoon, Mr Crowley,” Reginald said as he slipped into the car alongside Aziraphale, so that the front bench was now rather crowded, although not as crowded as it would be, were it not Crowley’s car.

“Hullo, Reginald,” Crowley said. “Day off?”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, here comes the brigade,” Crowley muttered, and got out of the car to let Miles and two women into the backseat. All three of them, he noted, were now wearing a full face of make-up, although Miles’ was, at least, modest enough for the Ritz.

It was _not_ modest enough for Reginald Jeeves, who stared at the three of them.

Crowley sighed, with the sort of easy satisfaction that comes from seeing one’s lifelong partner[3] have their plans go utterly awry, when you’ve been telling him just how awry they will go.

\--

“Who’s this handsome fish?” asked Florence, for whom Miles did not have a great deal of love. It was her fault they’d spent quite so long in the house, getting ready, putting on their faces and so forth, and he _did_ feel somewhat bad, although not quite bad enough to actually abandon the attempt without Agatha and her belle.

Indeed, Florence was more bête than belle in any case: her voice was high, nasal, and went shrill when she laughed, and to Miles, her nose resembled the beak of one of those vicious birds that goes about scooping the innards out of dead lizards and such forth.

“This is Reginald Jeeves,” Mr Fell said. “I am Ezra Fell, and my young companion here—”

Crowley sniggered.

“— is Anthony Crowley. Reginald, this is Miles, Miles…?”

“Maitland, Mr Fell.”

“Miles Maitland. And who are your delightful companions?”

“This is Agatha Runcible,” Miles said, “the Right Honourable, and this is Florence Partridge.”

“Of the Portland Place Partridges?” Mr Fell said as Crowley started driving. “You know, I think I know a cousin of yours.”

“Not Eddie?” Florence said.

“No, no, Edmund I’ve met only in passing – Henry?”

“Oh, _Henry_ ,” Florence said. “Yes, he’s a cousin of mine, more’s the pity. How do you know him?”

“Oh, we cross over in our circles,” Mr Fell said, his voice dripping with acid.

“Henry Battersea?” asked Crowley, with amusement in his own voice, and a sort of smug delight that made Miles rather want to start writing everything down. “ _My_ Henry?”

“Oh, I do wish you’d cease to be quite so unbearable, Anthony,” Mr Fell said, and Miles felt himself grin.

He met the gaze of Reginald, who had turned to regard him. He _was_ a handsome fish, Florence was right about that – he had charming features, dark hair, and was just the sort of big, attractive man one would expect to be able to carry one in his arms – Mr Crowley had, of course, but he didn’t _look_ as if he might be able to, skinny as a snake as he was.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Miles said, and proffered his hand over the seat. It was the left, not the right, and when he looked at the soupy face of young Reginald Jeeves, he more than expected the man to stubbornly shake it.

Instead, the fellow smiled, in a sort of small, delicate way, took hold of Miles’ hand, and brushed his lips against the backs of his knuckles. His lips were awfully warm.

Miles released a giddy noise, and almost missed the smug look Mr Fell turned on Mr Crowley, who was scowling fixedly at the road ahead of them. Almost, but not quite.

 

[1] Anthony Crowley was also capable of sauntering down sets of stairs, sauntering whilst underwater, sauntering upside down, and even, most impressive of all, appearing to saunter whilst seated.

[2] Miles and Agatha had their own habits about wearing dark glasses inside, and were not as prone to judgement on the matter as many would be.

[3] In hereditary enmity, that is.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and other forms of reader interaction are the primary reason I write fanfic


End file.
